By Luci Shaw


For every memory lost
there will be one
that will not let go.

Like a phone ringing,
you can’t
not answer it.


To write a poem is
to fling a stone,
not sure where
it will land.

The best ones come
when the poet
is taken
by surprise, when

that random pebble
of an image
its true home.


Brief, like mist
on a mirror,
the variable
ghosts on the bay,
dip and lift.

Sailing, to find the breeze,
you steer towards
the far, dark cat’s paw

not sure if
it will still be there
when you are.

Photo by Luci Shaw.

About the Author

Luci Shaw was born in London, England in 1928. A poet and essayist, since 1986 she has been Writer in Residence at Regent College, Vancouver. Author of over thirty-seven books of poetry and creative non-fiction, her writing has appeared in numerous literary and religious journals. In 2013 she received the 10th annual Denise Levertov Award for Creative Writing from Seattle Pacific University.  Her most recent collection, Eye of the Beholder, was released by Paraclete Press in 2018.

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